The Science of Destruction
by lifesrace
Summary: When he had agreed to kill his image, to finish the game that had destroyed his career, Sherlock had not imagined that it would end up like this. He had never truly understood that killing the man behind the game meant nothing at all if the idea of the game had the power to destroy everything the Detective had ever cared for.


**Author's Note: **Its sort of ridiculous that i'm starting this when I've got two other stories going, but this was just _plaguing _me. I promise I will keep Too Soon going at full pace and that I really really will update Man of a Thousand Faces, this just needed to happen. This story should end up being a long one. The first chapter is meant to be conceptual and purely experimental, and will develop into plotty elements later on... maybe even next chapter.

Enjoy ;)

* * *

A broken man is leaning against a light-post outside of Dublin.

His fingers shake as he lights a cigarette, and he can't but wonder if its because of the abuse he puts it under or the cold that is making his body betray him.

_He hates this._

He hates that he was too proud to accept help from his brother.

He hates that he's too wrapped up in the fight to find a way out.

He hates that he is finally in over his head.

The man pulls up the hood of his worn coat and accidentally drops his drag into a particularly deep puddle. He moans as he looks into the pack and realizes he is out and doesn't have the money to replace them, maybe ever.

The man had already given up the bare necessities of life in desperation.

The first to go had been his carefully selected group of friends, then more expensive commodities like hotel rooms. Of course, he hadn't mourned this at first. He had no plans of sleeping anyways. The dead don't sleep.

Afterward it had been food.

Sometimes, if he got really, really desperate, he would sometimes stumble into a soup kitchen. Passing out when the enemy was so very close was a fear of his that was quickly becoming reality.

The alarmed looks on the do-gooder's faces had been enough to tell him that he should avoid mirrors at all costs.

The cigarettes were a luxury that he had, until now, tried to keep in steady supply.

Since he had left, the motivation to stay away from them had left him almost immediately.

They kept him focused and sharp, and lung cancer seemed to pale in comparison to this.

Now he couldn't even afford this, and it terrified him.

Seven dollars and fifty cents.

That was all that was left to his name.

He couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could continue to live like this.

The body is ever so insignificant until it fails.

If he walked into the pub he had been so carefully avoiding he would have the money of course.

The letter had said so, and he trusted the letter.

All that was holding him back was the faint bit of pride he still held onto.

In that pub was his brother.

_I worry about him, constantly._

That was of course, the cause of the tremors coursing through his body.

He didn't want to talk to his sibling.

He _needed_ him.

He needed redirection.

He needed money.

He needed help.

After all, wasn't likely that he could hold on much longer.

For what was quickly becoming months, he had been traveling around Europe connecting broken clues and pieces of evidence that no one had ever seen.

Places that held secrets.

People that knew things.

He was an intruder climbing on a web.

A spy in the works.

He had killed the mother, but there were hundreds, possibly even _thousands_ of children across the world who still lived under the instruction of an idea.

That idea was Jim Moriarty, and that same idea had killed the worlds only consulting detective.

The detectives name was Sherlock Holmes, and in the dead of night, Sherlock couldn't help but wish that his death was more than an idea.

_It would certainly be easier._

* * *

Sherlock didn't dream about John being shot anymore.

At first that had been what kept him up for endless, all consuming nights.

No, the danger of the bullet had passed for his greatest companion.

Now it was so much deeper.

A month after his death, Sherlock stole a stack of papers off a porch. Deep down inside, he knew that he did this because he wanted nothing more than to know about John.

_My John._

On the third page, alongside articles of national importance had been a picture of his blogger outside Lestrade's apartment.

To the casual observer, the picture was nothing more than an photo used to illustrate an article following up the Holmes fiasco.

However, Sherlock was not the casual observer.

John had dark shadows under his eyes that he only developed after long periods of not sleeping.

He had lost some weight, although that could just have been the camera.

What really, really worried him were the ever so subtle lines on his face that indicated things like depression, extreme worry, even anger.

On long plane rides, the picture, which he had thrown away in fear, burned through his mind, forcing him to think about the fate of John Watson. His analysis took over his imagination, and in his mind, he pictured a broken blogger walking around 221b, more than a little lost.

During really, really bad dreams, Sherlock was being tortured.

Sometimes it was physical torture, sometimes it was mental, but there was always one thing in common.

In front of him, there was always a black and white stream of John drinking, crying, shouting, even committing suicide.

The last time Sherlock had spoke with Mycroft, his brother had said that John was recovering, slowly but surely, and that he needed to stop worrying at such an extreme level.

The detective could only hope that his mind would accept this.

Three months after that meeting and the dreams were being replaced by other things, things that were not John.

He dreamed of finding his enemies and being totally, completely, utterly at their mercy.

He dreamed of getting _everything_ wrong.

He dreamed that what he had done meant _nothing_.

Sherlock dreamed of failure.

Even now, outside of the small pub, his complete and utter exhaustion pulled Sherlock into these waking dreams, allowing emotions to rule his mind. He could not think in this state.

In the end, that was what compelled him to open the door.

A genius who couldn't think was not really much use to anyone at all.

As he stepped onto the creaking floors, his ever observant eyes scanned for Mycroft, but instead found himself looking at the back of a man who was clearly meant to look like his brother.

Just then he heard the sound of a gun locking into position somewhere in a back room.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have known he wouldn't have sent me a letter. Far to direct._

The fake turned toward Sherlock, knowing something was up.

Disappointment filled him.

He couldn't help but feel that his brother had yet again failed him when it mattered most.

The detective ran like hell was behind him, narrowly avoiding gunshot as he escaped into the alleyway across from the establishment.

The alley opened up to a small harbor and the vast expanse of the English Channel.

He jumped in and could only hope that his enemies would take a break and allow him to live just another day.

Sherlock was now playing a very dangerous game, and he wasn't so sure he was winning.

* * *

**A/N: **So what did you guys think of chapter one? Should I keep trying my hand at Sherlock or drop out?


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